Chapter 223: It Matters To Me
"I do not want you to watch me pledge my life to another woman when, in truth, it is you I truly want." Henry added.
"Your Majesty, it does not matter to me," Livia said.
"It matters to me. I have tolerated your stubborn refusal to share my bed," he continued, "but even after I am married, I do not intend to give you up."
"Oh, my," she said. "And there I was taking your feverish plans for our future seriously."
"Yes. Stephen informed me of my..." He cleared his throat, suddenly finding the shelves beyond her shoulder deeply interesting. "Of what I said."
Livia’s mouth twitched. The knowledge that he had proposed marriage while feverish was enough to make him avoid her eyes. "How much did he tell you?"
"Enough."
"That you called me your queen? That you promised to stand before the altar and marry me?"
"Livia." His eyes narrowed, though amusement tugged reluctantly at his mouth.
"I was joking, Your Majesty," she said, softening.
"I know." Henry looked at her then, and the sadness in his gaze stole the humour from the moment. His fingers moved absently against the fabric at her waist. "I came to apologise," he said and drew a slow breath. "Perhaps in another life, I shall return as a simple English yeoman, with a modest farm."
"And you," Henry continued, "would return as an Italian schoolmistress. You would teach the village children, and I would find excuses to pass your schoolhouse every afternoon."
The image was so simple that it hurt him: a cottage, open fields, him without a crown, her without fear.
Livia could not help but smile. "It is quite all right, my lord. I have no choice but to accept my destiny in this life."
Henry lifted one hand and caressed her cheek, his fingers moving with tenderness. His gaze lowered to her mouth.
She saw the kiss coming long before he leaned closer. She placed one hand against his chest and tried to rise.
His arm tightened around her waist, holding her firmly upon his lap. "Allow me, Livia," he murmured. "Even if it is merely out of pity," he continued. "Allow me something." He looked painfully vulnerable in that moment. A man asking for one small comfort before walking willingly into a marriage he did not desire.
That did not make it right.
"Your Majesty..." Livia turned her face slightly from his hand. "I cannot."
Pain crossed his expression.
"How long?" he asked. "How long will you punish me? What I want is sitting in my arms and still feels farther away than France." Henry searched her face. "How long will you wound me?" he asked quietly.
"Until I feel free," Livia answered honestly.
His desire could not erase what he had done. His affection did not return the choices he had taken from her. No matter how gently he held her, his arms remained part of the prison.
At last, Henry sighed. His hand fell from her face, though the arm around her waist remained. Livia suspected he kept it there because he was not ready to release her.
He glanced away. "What have you been reading?" His attention shifted towards the volumes surrounding the chair.
Livia picked up the nearest book and showed him its title. Henry asked about it, then challenged her interpretation of a passage. She accused him of deliberately misunderstanding it.
Within moments, the tension loosened replaced by arguments over poetry.
*****
London woke in celebration. Church bells rang across the city, answering one another from parish to parish, while crowds gathered along the streets leading from Whitehall to Westminster Abbey. Flags and bright lengths of cloth hung from windows. Merchants abandoned their stalls to cheer, and every child in London appeared determined to obtain a view by sitting upon someone else’s shoulders.
England was receiving a queen. Taverns had opened early, bakers sold sugared cakes at scandalous prices, and men who had never seen France spoke confidently of the alliance.
In the courtyard at Whitehall, Lionel waited for the king. He wore ceremonial livery beneath half-armour, the royal badge displayed prominently upon his chest. His sword hung at his side, his gloves were newly cleaned, and his boots had been polished.
Knowing Stephen, the king would not appear until every fastening, jewel, fold, and feather had been inspected twice. Stephen would never allow him to approach the altar with a crooked collar.
The courtyard was filled with mounted guards arranged in disciplined ranks. Their horses stood shoulder to shoulder, harnesses gleaming, coloured plumes stirring in the morning breeze. Additional men waited on foot near the gates, halberds upright, while trumpeters and heralds prepared beside the royal carriage.
It was a magnificent sight. It was also a security arrangement capable of making an invading army reconsider.
The carriage stood at the centre of the formation, freshly decorated for the occasion, its panels bearing the royal arms. Every buckle had been checked, every wheel examined, and every horse selected for steadiness. Lionel had personally inspected the entire procession before dawn.
The route from Whitehall to Westminster Abbey had been cleared and lined with guards. Wooden rails and ropes held spectators back at the busiest points, while officers watched the rooftops, windows, alleys, and landing places along the river. Londoners would be permitted to witness their king’s triumph, but no one would come close enough.
Everything was ready. Lionel glanced toward the palace doors. The king was late, the bells were growing louder.
Movement at the outer gate caught Lionel’s attention. One of the sentries approached at a hurried pace.
Lionel stepped forward. The guard bowed and produced a rolled sheet of parchment, secured with a length of cord. "What is this?" Lionel demanded.
"A keeper from the gaol brought it, my lord," the guard replied. "He said it came from a woman named Jane."
Lionel accepted the rolled parchment and turned it once in his hand. There was no seal, only a length of rough cord tied hurriedly around it.
(Brought to you by Mar King 3/3)
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